When It Rains, I Slow

Rainy days used to frustrate me.

They rearranged plans, canceled outings, muddied shoes. When I was younger, there was always somewhere to be, someone to meet, something to do. I wanted movement, invitation, visibility. I wanted to be seen, to be included, to be doing something.

Rain was an interruption.

Now, it feels more like a gift.

When the sky darkens and the air turns to mist, something in me exhales. The world softens at the edges. The pace eases. The expectations slip quietly out the back door.

I live under a metal roof. Actually, I always have. Even in my childhood home, the rain was a sound we lived inside. It’s not just background noise to me. It’s a memory, a rhythm, a kind of homecoming. That soft percussion, steady and silver, has always felt like being wrapped in something familiar.

On rainy mornings, my whole household moves more slowly.
We sleep a little longer.
We speak more softly.
Even the kettle whistles differently, gentler, less rushed.

If it's a Saturday, we stay in pajamas. We make a real breakfast; something warm and buttery, something that fills the kitchen with scent and comfort. The windows fog a little. The dogs curl up in their usual spots. Someone always asks for tea.

I drink too much of it on days like this.
Sometimes I bake.
Sometimes I read for hours with a hot mug beside me, the rain stitching a rhythm just beyond the page.

Rainy days have become a kind of holy permission.
To do less.
To stay in.
To move with intention instead of urgency.

I no longer feel the need to outrun the rain.
I let it soak into my pace, my plans, my breath.

Maybe this is what it means to grow into stillness.
To welcome what once disrupted us.
To receive the soft no as a gracious yes.
To know that slowing down isn’t a loss, but a return.

Let it rain. Let it hold us where we are, just as we are.

—L.B.

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